


Tell Me, Actor - When Did The World Start To Change?

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:44:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: After two separate episodes that challenge his perception of warfare and weaponry, Garrison comes to very uneasy grips with the fact that the world is changing, and he and his team are caught right in the middle.





	1. The Crocodile on the River Bank

**Author's Note:**

> Please read. { } as internal thoughts as my formatting is NOT transferring over correctly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you and those around you all seem like strangers, just who do you trust? She wasn't sure, but her instincts told her one thing loud and clear: going swimming with a crocodile just had to be a really bad idea!

She awoke slowly, sitting in a deep armchair with a book spilled across her lap, as if she'd fallen asleep while reading. The room, richly elegant, was unfamiliar to her, though, and the man sitting across from her sipping at a glass of wine even more so. {"Handsome enough, dark hair, medium skin tones, white even teeth, pleasant seeming,"} she thought to herself, {"just no one I can remember seeing before. Dressed very much as a 'gentleman of leisure', for whatever that might matter, and a general air of being well pleased with himself."}

For that matter, SHE seemed a bit unfamiliar as well, even that glimpse in one of the several mirrors in the room didn't jar her memory. She seemed to remember someone calling her Meg, but who and when, she didn't know, and somehow that name didn't seem quite right, but she wasn't sure why. She could understand not knowing this man sitting across from her, but not to know herself? Now that was troubling, and she frowned at the thought. 

"Ah, my dear, I see you are awake again; good, good, we were getting a bit worried, you know," he said with a ready smile.

Playing for time, she asked, "WE?"

"Well, myself, of course, oh, I'm Giles Alexander, your most obliging host, and I know your team members were quite concerned." He frowned at that, and leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, "I'm afraid they've gotten themselves in a bit of a jam, actually; that last project, the one you took that nasty crack to the head in, well, it didn't go well. I managed to get them all away safely, and have them here, all right and tight as they say, but I'm afraid you are all rather housebound til the pressure is off and the authorities turn their attention elsewhere. Still, you'll find no lack of comfort here, my dear, and you can rejoin them in the morning now that you're more fit again; they are in the guest house. You've been quartered here in the main house, while the doctor has been attending you. You've been up and around for a day or so, but do tend to drop off to sleep at odd moments still." Again, that smile.

It was a nice smile, and obviously intended to put her at ease, make her comfortable; she wondered why it didn't do so. Maybe it was the very deliberate way in which he used it, almost as if he'd planned to interject a smile at just that point. She thought she remembered, almost, someone who planned his smiles just that carefully. She wasn't sure she appreciated the very close, very speculative way he was watching her through his lashes, either, though if she'd been injured, she supposed that might account for the close observation.

"Ah, you do remember what happened, don't you, Meg dear?" His eyes widened as he took in her hesitant look.

"Oh, dear. Well, the doctor said there might be some memory loss and I might have to fill in the blanks for you. Now, if you can just tell me what parts are lacking . . ." He paused, and then broke into a rueful laugh, "now isn't that foolish of me, how can you tell me what's lacking if you don't remember to begin with? How about I ask you a few questions, just to see where I need to begin, and we can get started? First of all, your name is Meg. Do you remember that?" and he gave a pleased nod when she told him yes.

"Very good! Now, you and the team, do you remember that?" and her cautious headshake, brought a slight frown and a deep sigh on his part, as if he were rather uncomfortable. "Oh, dear; I really wish you did. That's just not an easy thing to explain." At her raised eyebrows, he continued, "Well, I know about you and the team, I just don't know the history, and would really hesitate to hazard a guess, but maybe that'll come back to you later."

With a deep sigh, sitting back and lighting a cigarette in a silver holder, {"Why does the smell seem familiar, but that holder seem a silly affectation?"} he said, "well, the team, they are called Garrison's Gorillas, actually; I know, a remarkably foolish name, but there it is; someone declared them that some years ago, and it just sort of stuck. They, you, are a mercenary team; you sell your services for the best offer, and it's said yours is one of the best in the business. Command quite staggeringly high prices, take on jobs others might not, things others might find their scruples would cause them to hesitate over, you know."

{"That doesn't sound right, the term Garrison's Gorillas, yes, that's familiar, but mercenaries? Seemingly unscrupulous ones at that?"}

"A fine assortment of talent he's gathered, this Garrison; oh, he's your team leader, my dear. Well, you'd have gathered that, by the name, wouldn't you, silly me. Used to be military, they say, though obviously he's taken a different path now," with a chuckling laugh.

"Anyway, the team . . . A safecracker and explosives expert, a conman and impersonator, a pickpocket and second story man, a knife expert and wheelman, and of course, there's you," all said with a congenial smile. She raised her brows, {"All of that sounds slightly familiar, or at least, it doesn't jar my senses as being wrong."}

"And me - what is my function on this team?" to hear what somehow she'd never have expected, "why, you are the team whore, of course!" And then, another, even deeper chuckle, "in fact, you are both the team whore, and the team's whore, and the team's nurse and general mother hen as well!"

Noting her puzzled frown, he proceeded to explain, "well, when they need someone seduced, for whatever reason, to obtain information, to provide a distraction, to act as a bribe, oh any number of reasons probably, usually a male someone, though not always, they send you to do the job. Of course, if it is a female someone, the conman is the usual choice, though there are exceptions. And, you service the lot of them, too, when you're not all on a job. On a job, of course, it's all business between you; that only makes sense."

At her startled, more than startled expression, he hastened to explain, "oh, it's all pretty much just a team function, like the pickpocket handles obtaining and caring for the clothing and various odds and ends, the safecracker is best in the kitchen and handles supplies, acts as general factotum, the conman handles the money and records, research, the knife man handles transportation and security, Garrison handles all outside communication and planning, that sort of thing. Nothing personal in it at all, your role, any more than theirs, in fact, they make a special point of that. They, you, even have things set in place - seems every time you gather together, you give each of them a light kiss, and when you part, the same; just to emphasize the impartiality. They don't take you away somewhere, nothing in private ever; everything, anything that's done, it's done with the others present, whether they participate or not; Garrison says that keeps it a team function, not letting anything get personal, you know. He doesn't allow personal relationships within the team; says it proves a hazard on the job." All this was offered briskly, in a matter of fact tone, still with that pleasant smile on his face.

{"Why does he put me in mind of a crocodile? There's even that faint trace of foetid water in the air. Yes, a crocodile, one watching a child playing at the side of the river. And that term he used, 'mother hen', yes the team has one, but it's not me; no, I don't remember who, but I know it's not me."}

The man smiled again, and she quelled a shudder, "to make it all very business like, he even has everything very, well, organized, you might say. Each of them uses a card with their name on it, and they jot down what they want from you, what you're to do, or what you are to expect from them. They just toss the cards on the table face down, and when it's time, you just stack the cards and start drawing them out, one by one," chuckling again, "no fair peeking or taking them out of order!, and, well, then you get down to business. They all wait their turn, though I'd imagine with a fair bit of impatience," again that rather annoying little chuckle. "And there's no conversation, either, during all that, just to keep it professional. Garrison complimented you, you know; he says you are quite an expert, quite versatile, have remarkable stamina, and are endlessly accommodating."

At her wide-eyed stare, "well, I'll admit it did all seem a bit strange when he first explained it, but it seems to work well; he says, frequently they even chose the same thing, or at least things that complement each other, so it's all quite civilized."

Then, at her incredulous look, as if he realized what he'd just said,and in what context, he stuttered a bit, "well, I don't know that I'd say civilized, actually, so much as well structured."

"If you don't remember them quite yet, the conman is called Actor; very tall, dark hair, olive skin, Italian I'd say by the accent, educated, carries rather an air of elegance about him; older than the rest of them by a good bit, takes care of himself, but starting to show it, well, aren't we all? You'd probably be carrying most of the weight there." Again, that little chuckle that was starting to really get on her nerves.

"The safecracker, well, that one's called Casino; dark hair, probably of Italian extraction as well or somewhere thereabouts, medium complexion, slightly husky build, not nearly so tall as the conman; rather a rough character, not polished at all, talks rather like a gangster in one of those American films. Probably most energetic, if basic," he said with an sly look and a slight shiver, almost as if of anticipation.

"Mustn't forget Garrison, of course; he's one of the two blonds, quite the taller of the two; can tell his military background rather easily in his bearing; probably born and educated a gentleman, speaks well, still has some of the ways; green eyes, seem to change a bit depending on the light and his mood, actually; light complexion. Wouldn't hazard a guess about him, really; in fact, I'd not be surprised if he doesn't leave you be most of the time, and take advantage of his perogatives as team leader, availing himself of some of the other opportunities there."

He licked his lips slightly, and shifted in his chair, "I know I certainly would, I mean, no offense to you, my dear, but an veritable embarrassment of riches, truly! I mean, it's not as if it would be necessary to actually converse with them, is it? I am reminded of the writings of the 12th Century writer Hazir El Rashid, in which he spoke of the jaded commander, home from the battles, finding all the pleasures of which he was wont to slake his thirsts gone stale and palid." He took a long drag at his cigarette, and proceeded to quote, no, orate in a slightly pompous, learned manner, several paragraphs in Arabic, looking off into the air.

"Ah, yes, well, to translate," and he proceded to do so, well supposedly. Somehow she seemed to remember Hazir El Rashid as having been from the 15th Century, and his writings were but a copy from Rakash of the 10th Century, and in fact, the paragraphs he had quoted came from the much more pornographic version that floated into popularity in some circles around 1870, the Victorian Era being rather well known for such supposedly erotic fakes, and why she knew that when she wasn't sure of her name, she certainly didn't know. She put a look of shock on her face; it seemed as if what would be expected from her, after all.

He shook himself, as if bringing himself back to the subject at hand. "I said he was light complected, but nothing like the other blond; that's the pickpocket, Goniff. He's a Cockney, little scrap of a fellow, hardly anything to him, street smarts, I'd say, but hardly more; moves about a bit like a ferret, all quick and jumpy." An amused laugh, "teeth rather like one too, could take quite a nip out of one, I'd say, imagine Garrison's a bit careful what he expects from that one," he snickered. "Still, there are other intriguing options, you know. He always looks like he's a pint or two low on the red stuff, you know, pale as pale can be. Can't imagine you'd find him too challenging," again, that snicker, that laugh, "not in any way."

Somehow, she knew that was far from the truth, as well; somehow she thought he was endlessly challenging, in many ways, though how she could know that without remembering the man, she had no idea either.

"Chief is the knife man, American Indian they say, or at least part, certainly the youngest of the crew, but deadly. Dark, of course, hair and skin, but comely enough, if you like the type; hardly like him at my back, that is, well in an alley anyway, though otherwise he might be, well, you know what I mean."

{"That simper, that silly fluttering of his eyelashes, is all more than a bit much; he's a caricature of an overdone 'type' far more common in literature and theatre than in real life. It's almost as if he's acting the part in a theatrical production, those oh-too-clever double entrendres, those ever-so-meaningful pauses and shivers and such, like they've been written out beforehand. The descriptions, the sly digs, almost as if he's taunting someone, but who? Me? Why, if my memory is gone? Testing me? I don't have to remember THEM to be indignant on their behalf, it seems, or maybe I remember more than I think, just not consciously yet. Or is it NOT for my benefit. Maybe he arranged it so they are somehow aware of what he's saying? That supposedly impromptu quotation would seem to indicate that, that was pure nasty, and he'd just mentioned that one of the team members is 'a little scrap of a fellow'; and somehow, that offends me a great deal, linking those two notions, like there's a special danger there. Yes, if they could be watching, hearing, that would seem to fit that self-satisfaction he's so full of,"} she analyzed to herself, also thinking self-satisfaction wasn't ALL he was full of, much less confused now, much more coldly considering her situation.

She shot a quick look around the room, surreptitiously, {"if I had my guess, I'd think maybe that oversized mirror on the back wall; it's too out of scale for the rest of the room, not in the right style although everything else is quite fitting, and the chairs are angled as if that is the audience."} She looked carefully, quick glances out of the corner of her eye til she thought she had it spotted, the door into what she'd bet was an adjoining room, a room probably holding her team.

"If there's anything else you'd like to know, I'll try to tell you, but if you're looking for their, uh, 'personal preferences', I'm afraid I really don't know, and I'd rather not inquire, if you don't mind. Gives people ideas, you know, asking questions of that sort. Can lead to all kinds of complications."

Again, that laugh; it was really starting to get on her nerves. It occurred to her that he smelled wrong, almost an intangible smell, like the smell of a personality rather than a body, rather like an overripe persimmon, not at all pleasant.

{"Why is it I want to ask him what THEY smell like, each of them? Why would that be important to me, be something I think I really need to know? Doesn't even seem a very polite thing to think about! Though with his description of them, and of me, I guess 'polite' isn't something we'd care so much about."} Her face showed her puzzlement, but when he asked, she just shook her head, keeping her thoughts to herself. {"Well, even in my current state of mind, I realize that's not a usual type of thing to ask. I seem to remember having someone tell me that I just don't seem to grasp the concept of subtlety; now that, that seems to fit what I know of myself!"}

"I'll take you to them in the morning; you'd best get a good night's sleep, maybe you'll feel better by then, more of your memory firmly in place," and again with that smile, the one that looked so reassuring, the one that reminded her of Cairo {"and when, and why, was I in Cairo?? And why does the not-a-memory make me want a sharp knife and a hot shower?"}

She doubted she'd get a good night's sleep; she was hungry, more than thirsty, but had determined to forego either out of some inbred wariness. She toy'd with the food, cutting it, rearranging it, hopefully so it would look like she'd eaten at least a few bites, but made a comment to the open air about the headache twisting her stomach and being glad for the time when she could relish her food again, not knowing if she was being overlooked, but wanting an excuse for the amount of food being left; she pretended to drink, but used some misdirection that seemed second nature to her to mask when she dumped the contents of the glass and later the cup into a crack in the floor. Her instincts were guiding her, they were still intact even if her memory was faulty, and even that was starting to trickle back.

She curled up in the bed, and used techniques she knew, but knew not from where, to tease out bits and pieces, and what came at first were not names or faces, but ways to defend herself, ways to fight, ways to discern truth from deceit. Then came to her the way to rest while remaining alert, and she used that, all the while letting her inner self slowly glide back to her. She didn't try to make sense of any of the bits and pieces, not yet, just gladly accepted them as tools for her to use, for she felt it might be up to her to do whatever was needful. She'd know more once she saw the team, perhaps that would bring more memories, perhaps they could tell her more, but for now, she'd retrieve as much as she could of what might be helpful. And so she rested, and let herself regain what it could.

By morning, names and faces were still in the mist, but what, who she was, what she was capable of, that was solid within her; also solid within her was anger at whoever was toying with her, and presumably, her team. She intended to put that anger to good use, let it act to fuel her energy, her determination that Mr. Alexander be fed a few surprises of his own.

***

The men were in front of the big one way mirror, expressions of anger, outrage, on their faces, voices raised as they protested the explanation being given to the young woman.

"She can't put any store in any o' that, can she?" the small blond Englishman demanded.

"Goniff, from what we have seen, they have kept her drugged for the past day or so, who knows with what. The right drugs, the right suggestions, the mind is a strange thing; who knows what any of us can be led to believe?" Actor said with a worried frown.

"But, what's the point, Warden? Gettin' her to think she's some easy piece, that we're some merc group? Why bother, what's he looking to get outta this?" Casino demanded.

"I don't know, Casino," Garrison said with a thoughtful look, "what's the point of grabbing all of us in the first place? No one's made any demands of us, HQ sure isn't going to pay to get us back. None of it makes sense, at least not with the information we have right now."

He gave them the signal to watch what they said, did; that they might have eyes and ears on them, just as she did. They turned back to the screen, to hear the descriptions being given to her of her teammates and leader. The implications, the slurs, that had each of them seething with indignation on their own behalf, on the behalf of the others. Even Casino had no intention of using any of this as fodder in one of his future episodes of teasing, it was all too 'off'.

The quote in Arabic had caused Actor's eyes to widen in shock, and they watched the expression on his face, frowns on their face, wondering what he was hearing, and then when they heard the man quote the English version to the girl, their jaws dropped, and they couldn't look at each other, much less Garrison.

He had studied classical literature in college, and many of the classics had their lurid points, but he thought maybe he'd heard the most lurid now, this story of the commander, the drunken night of revelry and debauchery, the detailed, graphic descriptions of the sexual interactions between the commander and his five closest officers. The casual recounting of the resultant death of one of the officers, quoted as 'although being an experienced warrior was built more like a boy than a man, and thus unable to survive when, in their drunkeness, several of his fellows sought to share him' drew puzzled looks, then exchanged looks of sick horror.

Goniff didn't look at anyone, simply sitting crosslegged on the floor, staring off onto a portion of the wall, his pale complexion turning slightly green, focusing on taking deep swallows, long easy breaths in and out, in and out, the recent encounter with the Miggs family perhaps bringing that recitation rather closer to home than it might otherwise, though perhaps other memories also played their part. Casino saw him practicing the technique they'd taught him to fight back seasickness or airsickness, both of which he was highly prone to suffer from. Obviously, that graphic description, full of blood and pain and death, had triggered the same response, and for himself, Casino had to admit his own stomach now had its own tendency to rebel, realizing, remembering just how close run that had been. He stepped over, squatted down carefully, to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder, squeezing it firmly, getting a raised head, a wide-eyed look of gratitude in return.

Certainly, the look on the woman's face indicated she'd not been expecting that when Alexander had started his showing off!

Garrison had to force himself to look at them evenly, calmly when he gave them orders to settle down, focus. If there had been a real mirror in the room, it would have shown his face an interesting shade of white mottled with red, tense jawed with nostrils flared. He hoped their shock and response to that nightmare story had kept them from hearing that last bit, about Garrison 'being careful of what he'd expect from Goniff' and that little laugh, though why that bothered him so much he wasn't quite sure; it was hardly more than everything else the man had been spewing forth.

The news that Meghada would rejoin them in the morning would have been welcome, except for the context, except for their wondering what was in store for them all. The big room they were in was well equipped, far more comfortable than it could have been; cots for each of them at one far end, table with chairs, easy chairs around the room, a bathroom, complete with shower at the far end; fresh clothing had been provided, items similar to the fatigues they were accustomed to wearing, reasonably well fitting. Not much they could use to get out, either, he thought ruefully; they'd checked, of course. They could use pieces of the cot, the table or chairs, as bludgeons, but a grill came down between the door and the room when food was brought, the food left on one side and the attendants out the door before the grill was raised again. There'd been no one in the room with them since they'd awakened from a drugged sleep after one of their 'easy' missions had gone all to pieces. 

***  
As in answer to their thoughts, the man in the adjoining room, now alone after the woman had been led out by a butler-type, turned to the large mirror.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I presume you have many questions, and I regret, I have no answers to give you. Well, I could have, of course, but I choose not to. Best have a good night's sleep; you have a busy day scheduled for the morrow," he trilled. "Oh, and if you later become worried about not moving adequately, don't worry, when the time is right, I assure you that you will be more than capable of moving. Nighty-night," with a tiny wave of the hand, and a smirking grin.

The room went dark, and the men were left to again question their fate, only to come up with no answers. Eventually, Garrison ordered them all to get some sleep, though he set up a rotating watch, just in case, just because. 

It was during the third watch when it came; Chief was on guard, and he heard the tiny hiss, and traced it to a small air vent. Turning to alert the others, he realized it was too late; he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. For the next three hours, the gas filled the room; they breathed it in, and they listened, though unknowingly, to the soft voice that filtered into the room throughout that time. In the morning, they awoke with no knowledge of what had occurred, except that Chief had never awakened Casino to take his turn at guard, and couldn't remember why. 

Coffee appeared in the usual manner, though Garrison motioned them not to drink any. He wasn't taking anything for granted now, not assuming the innocence of anything, even that pot of coffee drawing them to it with its fragrance.

Not long after, the light went on in the room next door, and shortly thereafter they watched in frustration as the man they remembered handed Meghada a small stack of cards.

"Here, my dear, Garrison thought he'd have me give you these, let you take a quick look before you join them, so you'd be prepared. Keep them in the same order, though; must play fair!" he said with a giggle. "I warn you, it seems they've, what, 'gone without' for a bit now, so seems they are all a bit enthusiastic. He says just to do your usual good job, there might even be a bonus in it for you, consider it 'hazard pay', " and that smile again.

They watched the young redhead look at the cards one by one, saw her eyebrows snap up dramatically and her eyes wide as she looked back at the man. Each of them wondered, groaned inside wondering, just what was on those cards.

"Well, I must admit, I took just a little peek," there was that damned simper again! "And it did seem a bit much, especially all in one session, and with you just recovering from that nasty knock on the head, but he says you've handled more, and quite well, too. And he does place full confidence in you, you know."

With a wave of his hand, he had the butler-type show her to the end of the room, and moments later, a door in the wall, one they had no idea was there, opened and she was quickly escorted through, so quickly she stumbled at the sill almost falling into the frame, though quickly recovering.

Though they had thought to catch the door before it closed, it seemed none of them were capable of moving more than a slow nod or turn of the head, or indeed thinking at their usual quickness either. Furthermore, Garrison noted that the moment the woman walked in, his ability to speak seemed to disappear. He made a concerted effort, but no, nothing. He looked slowly at Actor, to see by his widened eyes that he was experiencing the same thing.

Furthermore, he found himself becoming aroused, heavily aroused, with the image of himself . . . {"No! I'll not let myself think that!"} forcing the image from his mind, appalled. He wondered if the others were experiencing the same thing, looking at them, seeing the faintest hint of dismay in each face, the struggle, and evidence of their own strong arousal, and he thought they probably were. Remembering the earlier conversation, it seemed the ability to move was linked with the images, that they'd been conditioned somehow to not move except for those purposes. He wondered if he let himself start to yield to the suggestion, whether he could catch himself, gain enough control to somehow help free them, or would he find himself helpless against the pull to take her.

She stood looking at them, first as a group, then as individuals. {"Yes, they seem very familiar,"} she thought in some relief. {"That much is clear, and I have genuine affection for them, that is real, too. The smaller one, he seems to have a special draw for me, the one Alexander disdained as 'not being much of a challenge'. He is something, offers something, though, something different than the others, that I can tell, though my memory doesn't tell me exactly what, not yet."}.

She frowned a bit as she looked back down at the cards in her hands; these seemed thoroughly off, though. {"Do I really do these things with these men? Do I let them do these things TO me? All together, in one room, at the same time?? I have trouble thinking this would work well with a fighting team, or that you could keep the personal out of it. I rather have trouble thinking I'd be able to handle this physically, at least not frequently, and my body seems to have no memory of such energetic undertakings!"}.

She thought back to the 'crocodile' in the other room, {"if you take into account I don't seem to trust him, not as far as I could throw an elephant, why would I believe what he says about this? I am remembering some things; I remember I have good instincts, that I don't trust easily, and I trust these men, even not remembering them as men, as individuals yet, but I can remember the trust."}.

The impassive look on their faces, though, the intense look in their eyes, failed to reassure her, and the fact that each of them were sporting sizeable tents in their trousers made her doubt her reasoning as well.

{"Seems like they are certainly expecting some action,"} she thought, {"but this just doesn't feel right. Look, search, there's more to be learned here!"}. There was a faint smell in the air, gas of some kind, maybe some drug; the men were standing too quietly, their eyes almost like they were fighting an internal battle. She thought of the possibilities, of her training, and considered her options.

She somehow knew she couldn't have touched, on any intimate level, the man in the next room, not without some serious gagging and feelings of revulsion. She wondered why she felt no personal distaste at the thought of touching, of 'servicing' these men, any of them, other than a feeling of reluctance on their behalf, more as if she would be encroaching on their private space, committing an offence, violating a trust. Otherwise, if it had been needful, for their own benefit, yes, she could have offered them relief in some simple form, though probably not the most intimate, still enough, even if she felt no passion of her own; she thought it would be rather like when she tended their wounds, an act of assistance, of compassion, and again wondered. She didn't remember tending them, but she KNEW she had, confident she would again.

She had no conscious recollection of any of them, found that troubling; then she remembered her thoughts from the night before, about their scent, how they smelled. {"I wonder . . ."}. And she considered how to get close enough to test that thought. There was a way, possibly, if she was right in what she was coming to suspect, to free them, though she wasn't sure she was strong enough, not for the whole team, especially with her memory still fading in and out, but if what she suspected was true, she'd make every effort, drain herself if need be to get them free to act. She resolved to try, to start with the leader, then with the others in order of apparent strength, so they could better assist if she wasn't strong enough to free them all.

She let a shy smile cross her face, drawing it out of some vague mental picture of a girl child, looking like her but not her, hardly more than waist high. "I hope they told you I'm having a bit of trouble with my memory, but I'm told we're team mates, so I hope you'll bear with me til everything falls back into shape. Mr. Alexander explained things to me, and I'll do my best, but please, don't hesitate to remind me, guide me if I, well, fall short of expectations."

Garrison wanted to rage, but no words would come, and even the expression on his face remained neutral.

Goniff, he want to hurt someone badly, preferably that smiling man next door, for his proud, strong Meghada, (for he thought of her as his, if not in reality, then in his most wistful thoughts) to be expected to 'service' anyone. He saw the images in his own mind, of what he was to demand of her, of what they were to do together, knowing the thoughts weren't his, they hadn't come far enough for them to be his, not yet, maybe never, and he didn't want it to be like this, no, not if it never happened!

Actor fought to keep himself under control; the urge to grab her, force her to her knees in front of him, him seated firmly in one of the big chairs, was so strong it made him dizzy.

Casino was breathing heavily, almost groaning with the need to push her up against the wall and take what she was supposed to offer; knowing, deep inside, that she shouldn't be offering him anything, that if she was anyone's, could possibly become anyone's, he kinda thought it'd be the little Limey, not him.

Chief stood against the wall, head leaning back, trying to breathe through the need; the visions he saw, {"No, that's not me! I'd not hurt her like that, I couldn't!"} but the now-painful erection was going nowhere.

"I'm told I customarily greet each of you with a kiss, so let's start there," with a smile so sweet, so tender, it made each of them want to throw something in frustration, with the need to stop this before it went any further, but they hadn't the ability.

She walked over to Garrison, "good morning, sir." and leaned into him, touching her fingers to the pulse in his throat as if it were the most natural thing in the world; she kissed him on the corner of his mouth, taking time to nuzzle him under the ear, inhaling deeply. {"Friend, companion, leader. No, I've never 'serviced' this one."} She returned the thoughts, strong energy to him, firmly, her fingers at the side of his throat, {"Friend, companion, leader!"} and caught a shocked flicker in his eyes, reading her own message of caution, and answering it with a look that he would bide his time. {"You can move now, and speak, when it's time!"} she added. He twitched his fingers at the front of his thigh, and the harsh relief in his eyes was answer enough.

Chief was next in her path, "good morning, Chief," with a repeat performance, with {"Friend, companion, brother,"} and the rest, to see the answer, the easing in his eyes, the gathering of strength for what was to come.

Moving to the far side of the table, she looked up at Actor, "and do I carry a step stool around with me, Actor, in order to give you your kisses?" she teased, reaching up a hand to cup behind his neck and pull him down for her attentions. {"Again, friend, companion, no more,"} and he also tested with just a slight movement of his hand. His brown eyes told her he would be ready as well.

Casino, she could reach with no more of a stretch than with Chief, and did so, with the same results, shock and relief in equal measure in his eyes. When she stood in front of the small blond man, the one with such a tight, strained look in his eyes, she didn't have to stretch herself, he was only a hair taller than she was.

"Good morning, Goniff," she smiled at him, only to see the look in his blue eyes deepen almost to pain. She ignored that, at least visibly, but realizing it was important that he was feeling this so intensely. She leaned in, touched the pulse in his throat, kissed him gently on the side of his mouth, inhaling deeply, to have memories, feelings explode in her mind! {"The lost one, found, claimed, touched, loved. His scent, deep in my mind, in my heart."} She fought a fierce battle to keep the expression on her face the same gentle, placid one of before, wanting to move in closer, to touch him more thoroughly than just the tips of her fingers at his throat, to feel his arms around her.

{"This one, yes, I know what it feels like to lay next to him, I know what his body feels like under my hand, the scent of his arousal, what he sounds like in passion, in completion. I don't think we've completed the process, I don't know the feel of him inside me, in any way, but I know the taste of his skin on my tongue; yes, we've made a start on that journey."}. She thought of the card with his name on it, knowing she could easily do what it commanded, indeed what each of the cards commanded, if only with him, would relish it under the right circumstances, but knowing, looking into his eyes, that it would be a violation, being done here, this way. Her mind churned, and she forced herself back to the task at hand, {"Friend, companion, my dearest one, my love, be ready, watch for the sign,"} giving him the release to move, speak when it was wise to do so, watching his eyes blink rapidly, watching the pain bleed away, to be replaced by awareness, by hard cold readiness.

She stood back, letting a bit of her own personality show through, smiling a bit mockingly at them. "You know, boys, I took a look at those cards, and really?? I understand it's been awhile, but not even for hazard pay is that lot happening, not with this headache I'm still dealing with. Tell you what, I'll split my share of the next job with you, and we'll just tell Mr. Alexander that I was a real champ, whatta ya say?"

And with a sly lick of her lips and a teasing arch of a brow, as if she was reconsidering, trying to reshuffle the deck, "unless you'd like to come catch me? First one gets his wish, everyone else waits for a day or two, eh?" She took another look around, trying to reach each of them, hoping she had been able to counter whatever drug they'd been given, whatever suggestions they'd been given. Since the tenting had subsided, almost entirely, it seemed she may have, and she hoped the crocodile wasn't observing that!

She had manoeuvred her way closer to the door, the door she'd slapped that piece of tape over the lock when she was escorted in. {"Ever so thoughtful of them, to leave me in that office unattended, though I did think I was being watched, but didn't take much slight of hand to manage that bit!"} The fingers of her left hand moved, three middle fingers extended, thumb rubbing across the tips, as if a nervous habit. She looked at each of them, lowered her lids, signaling as they were accustomed to Garrison signaling them, astonishing herself to realize that in freeing the men, she had somehow freed herself and her memory. She laughed teasingly, and moved backwards toward the door, them gathering in a semi-circle in front of her, closing in, when she grasped the edge of the panel with hard fingers and pushing, feeling it give, and then she was through, blocking the door from closing again. They were behind and past her in a flash, and together, Mr. Alexander and his 'butler' were overcome and bound with articles of their own clothing. 

She felt as if she'd fought a long battle, headache raging from the overcoming of the suggestions. She collapsed in one of the big wing chairs, rubbing her forehead, tilting her head back, watching the battle, but trusting in them; she left the rest to the team, signaling Garrison that she was out for the count unless he needed her. He didn't; they pulled the beyond-foolish story out of these two.

Yes, they'd found time to 'speak' with the British regional junior officer, posing as the butler, who thought she and the team would prove a suitable team of 'guinea pigs' for his research scientist brother, (she had mentally dubbed him a 'mad scientist' and probably wasn't too far off the mark!), and mostly because of that nickname in her file, 'Ice Queen' and her reputation for not allowing anyone to take liberties, and for supposedly not forming any personal or romantic relationships. Though, the fact that the guys were cons had helped in their selection, as well, as being those who would not be believed if this came to light, if their part came into question, "Yeah, drugged, right; just decided to have a little team fun, that's more the case!".

Two drugs, the first to cloud the memory and increase susceptibility to suggestion, to new memories; the second, to be used to implant strong suggestions, one layered on top of another on top of another. Being of the more slimy of perverts, they'd chosen this highly improbably setup instead of a more basic test, thinking to get some rich pleasure out of their experiments as well as results. The file Goniff had found had indicated this would have only been the first test, and actually the most benign! They hadn't let her see that file, but the fact that the men were ALL slightly green, and not just Goniff but also Casino spent some time in the loo heaving their guts out after reading it gave her a clue she wouldn't have been favorably impressed with the plans. They'd found a nice jail cell, in one of the less civilized countries, for the two to sit out a few years thinking up new schemes, somewhere those schemes wouldn't gain a sponsor. Somehow Meghada thought they wouldn't be troubling anyone ever again.

Back home, for the most part, they were done with this ridiculous situation, well, except for the embarrassement all around when Goniff picked her pocket in jest, and then, realizing what he held, with a stricken look on his face after having glancing at them, handed the cards back to her hastily. She looked at them, laying on the palm of her hand; realizing what they were, the guys looked at them like they'd been a nest of scorpions. She gave a snort, glancing down at the cards, not looking at the men.

"Imaginative little cuss, wasn't he, if not a very good judge of character, or of anything else, it would seem??", shook her head, and tossed them in the fire. "He didn't even know his Arabic literature worth a damn; that particular supposed translation of the 15th Century Hazir El Rashid (and HE was just parroting the writer Rakash from the 10th Century!) was from the highly pornographic forgery making the rounds around 1870, I believe, quite popular in certain Victorian drawing rooms that delighted in that sort of thing."

Actor and Garrison looked at her in shock that she'd know that, along with Chief and Casino. Goniff just had a little grin on his face; he'd long since gotten over any feelings of inferiority at the depths of her knowledge; they'd resolved it between them to their mutual satisfaction, just some things she knew, like he knew the tools and tricks of his own trade; she was a smart one, and he was proud of her for it.

She gave a little sound in her throat, shaking her head in disgust, "I wonder who he had write his dialogue for him; you know, I kept thinking he sounded like a second-rate actor in a third-rate play, you know, one of those dished up pretending to be ever so sophisticated and avante garde, with all their little double entendre's and clever little aside comments, but coming off more like a really bad French farce. I wonder if the pair of them participated in amateur theatricals in their youth?" She laughed in amusement, not looking at them, but seeing them relax a bit, remembering those descriptions given of them, realizing just what she thought of those descriptions. She smiled to herself; yes, she'd thought the air needed to be cleared between them in that regard.

She startled them when she left to return to the cottage, walking up to each of them, giving each of them a light kiss on the cheek, accompanied by a quiet confirmation, "Friend, companion, leader", "Friend, companion, brother", "Friend, companion, brother," "Friend, companion, brother", and finally, "Friend, companion," and in a very low voice, meant for him alone, "machushla, ashtore", and in each face she found the response she was hoping to find, one of relief, of comfort and reassurance at her acknowledgement of their place in her regard, in her life. And on one face, more, a promise, a shared understanding of things, of possibilities to come.


	2. Perchance To Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein HQ foists a temporary art expert on Garrison, and Actor smells a rat. 
> 
> Garrison was a student of the art of warfare, had watched with more than a little dismay as the reigning Powers That Be (on both sides of this war) started to expand their repertoire of weapons. Still, he'd certainly never expected the Mansion to be the latest battleground, nor his men likely casualties of that new form of warfare.

"I do wonder, Colonel, if this is quite the thing to be doing. I mean, it sounds most fascinating, of course, but it seems rather, well, a dreadful thing to be doing to our own men, and the Geneva Convention prohibits such activities with regard to prisoners. To do to our own what we're not allowed to do to the enemy, well. And it seems certain to be detrimental to their performing their duties, you know, lack of proper rest, the emotional stress."

"That's just it, Lieutenant. If we can see how such things affect a soldier, we'll know how to combat it. We'll know how to use this substance to our advantage in confusing the enemy as well. It's important research, and Professor Craleigh seems to know just how to proceed. I've given my approval, and so have the other two members of the committee. Now, we just have to find the appropriate subjects for his first trials. Here is the list of what he requires. See to it, immediately."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Sanders replied, saluting. He still didn't agree, but his agreement hadn't been asked for. He took a look at the sheet of paper in his hand. "Hummm, at least five subjects but not more than seven, all male, all together in one spot so as to simplify administration and observation, varying weights and sizes so as to test impact of dosages, preferably somewhat isolated from others so as to minimize untoward impact on or interference by others not in the study, each or at least most from a background where the presence of bad dreams and nightmares are more likely, and, of course, what IS NOT written down but understood, no one who is important, is related to anyone important, is well liked enough by anyone important enough to kick up a fuss if this all comes out! Oh, yes, that should be a snap!"

He shrugged, being from a long line of military officers, telling himself as he left the office, "well, that's what my father always said Sergeants are for, handling the sticky details." When he got back to his office, he read over the list again, thought over the men in his command, picked up his phone and told his aide, "get me Sergeant Thompson in my office, on the double." {"Yes, just the sort of sticky details to pass over to the Sergeant."}

Sergeant Thompson listened stoically, and reached out his hand for the list, reading it over carefully. He cast his mind back over that little incident in the Brandonshire pub last month, the money he'd lost in that poker game, and a small smile came to his face. "I think I know just the men for this job, Lieutenant. Fit the bill right well, I'd say." 

***

"Lieutenant Garrison, this is Professor Reginald Craleigh. He's been assigned from the Ministry to evaluate the art work, paintings, statues, and such, at the Mansion. He'll be staying on site til the job is completed, probably three or four weeks. He will be staying in the room down the hall from yours."

Protests about security, interference with their training, at least having the man in the other side of the Mansion farther away from his crew, maybe housing him at the local pub, nothing worked at dissuading the Brass from moving the rather vague seeming professor in the black horn rimmed glasses, who had arrived wearing that long flappy plaid overcoat and that ridiculous deerstalker cap, into the room only two doors down from the Dorm, and across from the common room. Garrison briefed his men, warned them, scolded them, issued a few threats, and when he sat in his office afterwards was confident of one thing, "this will not go well!"

Craleigh, no, Professor Craleigh, he was most adamant about that, which means the guys made a point of calling him Craleigh, when they weren't calling him Crappy or Crab Legs or Sherlock or Shirley (in homage to that cap and overcoat and that pipe with the long curved stem), or something worse, was a nuisance. He was supposed to be doing something or other with the art, but seemed to be in the guys' way more often than not. Always scribbling in that notebook of his. Lurking in the hallways, in the corners of a room. Watching them out of the corner of his eye. Actor had tried to engage him in conversation, being more than somewhat of an art expert himself, curious as to which art he was viewing, to what aim, etc., but found himself getting more and more puzzled.

"Craig, I do not see any point to what he is doing; it makes no sense. He moves one piece at a time to his room, instead of leaving it in place or taking it into the gallery, but there's simply not enough light in his room for any serious examination. He doesn't seem to have any discerning between the better pieces from the outright fakes, of which there are a surprising number, and unlike most art experts, has no interest whatsoever in discussing art! From the look in his eyes when I've mentioned some rather obvious point, or refer to some fairly well known piece of art or museum, I don't think he knows anything much ABOUT art. And everytime we turn around, there he is. He first seemed fascinated by Chief, but after a couple of days, started watching Casino. When Casino had those nightmares a couple of nights ago, when we were trying to wake him up, there Professor Craleigh was, in the doorway staring, not offering to help, just watching, as if he were at the theatre. Next morning, he's in the kitchen the same time we are but is so busy watching Casino spill his coffee, he actually let Goniff steal all the bacon off his plate without noticing til it was too late. Now, I feel his eyes on me, every move I take. It's unnerving, and the men are starting to show the strain. You and I both know that is not a good thing, for them, or for him; you know how they can get."

"Yeah, there's something fishy about the guy; I tried to talk to the Ministry again, but no dice. He's ours, we're stuck with him til he's finished, and that's that."

"I wonder, you know, Meghada has a good eye, for a con and in other ways too. We could invite her for a visit, perhaps, see what she thinks. And, didn't she say she had a cousin who was a bit of an expert in the art field, both the legitimate and perhaps less than legitimate sides? She may have sources that are no longer available to me. Perhaps another perspective, but from someone more likely to have our interests in mind than most." Garrison looked at the tall man sitting in the office chair opposite him.

"Now there's an idea; get an outside opinion we can trust without alerting the Brass what we're doing. I'll stop by there on my way to London, see what she thinks." Garrison thought of the young woman as a wild card, assuredly; he couldn't really figure her out, and actually thought he was probably better off that way, but he didn't have any doubt she'd help if she could. She'd proved that in the past. For some reason, she seemed to like them, care about what happened to them, and Garrison knew friends like that were in short supply for his team.

"Maybe we're just imagining things, maybe we're just not used to having someone else around, but it's starting to wear thin. He's supposed to be doing something with the art, but he's paying more attention to us than to it; watching when we're on the firing range; not close, but enough to see, enough one of us, usually Chief, spots him. He's there if we take an early morning go on the obstacle course. He's always making notes. Actor is stumped, and you'd think if anyone could spot a con, it'd be him. Well, he says it IS a con, but he can't figure out what kind, just that the guy, this supposed art expert, doesn't know anything about art. Maybe they're trying to do some kind of evaluation of the guys without me knowing about it; I just don't know, but it's got everybody spooked, and it's starting to show. If this goes on much longer, if I have to take them out on a mission like this, we're in trouble! No one is at their best, far from it! Four nights in a row Casino or Chief has roused everyone up with nightmares. Yeah, they get them. Hell, we ALL get them! But usually we get a break, not one just right after the other, barely getting back to sleep before another one hits, all night, night after night. I don't think any of us are getting more than a couple of hours of sleep."

He ran his hand through his gold-blond hair, and she looked at him with concern. {"He looks worn out; if he looks this bad, what do the guys look like?"}

She hadn't been at the Mansion or seen the guys, not even her blond laddie, since she'd come back from that disaster of a trip to Norway two days ago. One of those two days had been taken up with debriefing in Folkestone, and hadn't that been one hell of a lot of fun! Oh, the mission had been a success, but the team she'd been co-opted to were possibly the most incompetent bunch she'd ever worked with. She was surprised at her atypical forebearance, that she hadn't just left them there, wandering around among the fjiords. The final straw came when their leader had insisted the pickup point was twenty miles to the North. Well, they were being picked up by sub, and there was no coastline twenty miles to the North, only the inland border with Sweden, so you would have thought that MIGHT have given him a clue that he was freakin' wrong! She never did figure out what he'd been thinking; she was beginning to wonder if the idiot knew how to read a map! And of course HQ didn't want to hear any of that, oh, no!

Well, she wouldn't be going out with them again, she'd told them that flat out, and she'd passed the word as best she could, to the Clan agents, to others she knew, so maybe THAT would have an impact, maybe help keep some of them alive. She rather doubted that man or his team would survive another two missions, if that; they sure as hell wouldn't if anyone was dumb enough to send them back out with HER! She'd likely strangle the lot before they left England!

She tilted her head, "what did you say his name was, Crawley?"

"Craleigh, Professor Reginald Craleigh." He spelled it for her.

"I'll check with my cousin Dilic; that's her area. Describe him for me," and she took notes as he talked.

"I'm headed to London, another cheery little sitdown with the Brass, them explaining my ever so humble place in the scheme of things," he said with a grim face. "I should be back this evening; I'll stop by, if it's not too late, we can discuss your getting a look at him; if not, in the morning. I'd say go on up today, but with a stranger around, we're having to be more careful not to have civilians on the estate without my being there; just one more thing for the Brass to bitch about."

She knew now he really was tired; he usually made a serious attempt at keeping a professional attitude, and he was really blurring that line, just like lack of rest was blurring the brilliant green of his eyes. "It doesn't matter if it's late, Lieutenant. Knock at the door whatever the time; I'll be here, and available to talk about this. Have a safe trip; try not to slug any of the idiots!, you won't do the guys any good by being in the Stockade," that getting a reluctant grin from him, but no promises. She showed him out the door, locked it behind him, and headed to the radio set; it wouldn't do for someone to open that door and find out about the radio.

Luckily Dilic was at home in Edinburgh; that was the good news. The bad news was that she had never heard of a Professor Craleigh, either in the legitimate art field or the far flung alternatives. She offered to spread the search wider, and Meghada gladly accepted her offer. Meanwhile, she made a couple of other calls; the Ministry supposedly sent this man; surely the Ministry files would prove informative, and just so happened one of their Clan friends knew someone who knew someone, well, you get the drift. The Clan tried to make a point of knowing someone who knew someone, etc in as many different areas as possible. It was ever so convenient that way.

Six o'clock and she was more concerned than ever. The Ministry did NOT have a file on Professor Craleigh, or a record of any one doing anything with the art at the Mansion; this was a situation initiated by another department, requested on the behalf of yet another, unnamed, department, but they had no details; they were providing the cover only. She thought that was remarkably trusting of them. Or remarkably stupid. Perhaps both. Probably both. Sometimes she wondered how they were going to win this freaking war, with the idiots who seemed to be running the show.

The call from Dilic at ten o'clock had her on high alert. "The only Professor Reginald Craleigh I can find hasn't anything to do with art; the description matches, though. He's a theoretical behavioral scientist; supposedly working on something hush-hush with some of that thinker-toy group out of Shawton (referring to the rather rude nickname given the supposedly non-existent dirty-tricks department of the military industrial complex). Closest person we have is in Meyersville, and the facility is pretty highly secured. I don't think it's something we can crack easily, not without them knowing something's up."

"Don't do anything for right now; I'll see what I can do from this end. Thanks, Dilic!" She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Garrison pulled up at 1am. She turned down the light at his weary knock, opened the door, and pulled him inside.

"Have a seat, Lieutenant, we need to talk." She made him a toasted cheese sandwich, poured them both a drink, they talked, and he left. She slipped into bed, still thinking about tomorrow. She hoped he'd be getting some sleep; she was afraid they'd both be needing it.

Professor Craleigh was frustrated. Yes, the formula seemed to work, at least he thought it did. The one called Chief had had repeated nightmares the first two nights, but the other men had been able to rouse him from them easily, even with the increased dosage the second night. He wondered if the ethnic makeup of the man had anything to do with that; there had been a paper in one of the journals about the aboriginal types being more resistant. He made a note to try an even greater dosage later, but had switched his efforts to the second in line for the time being.

There had been more success with the one called Casino. The first night, they'd had some trouble rousing him from the nightmares, and they had continued most of the night, and even more the second night, when the dosage had been increased by two-thirds according to the schedule, and he'd seemed off balance the next day, not shooting well, clumsy, dropped his coffee cup at breakfast, and other things as well. That had seemed most promising, but then, last night, the one called Actor got his first dosage, but there had been no disturbance to his sleep at all that he could tell from where he was listening outside the door, so obviously the dosage needed to be increased more than expected to account for the tall man's build and weight.

Also, the subjects were having trouble getting to sleep in the first place, perhaps something to do with the drug, which delayed the effect which reduced the trial time, so he was adding a soporific to the original drug, just to ease them into it faster. If something didn't start happening soon, he was afraid those who'd given him this opportunity would lose patience and refuse to let him continue.

Not everyone understood the importance of his research; he was always having to justify himself and his studies, and he was really getting rather tired of having to deal with such ignorant people. His father and grandfather, they'd been researchers into dream study as well; they said they'd had the same problems: the ones who understood and had the interest didn't have the money, and the ones that had the money, didn't understand the process and were overly impatient. However, the ones funding this study had the money, they had the resources, so for now, he just had to do the best he could with what he was given, he supposed. He did NOT have to like it, though; he certainly deserved more, deserved better.

Well, tonight should see an improvement. He had the dose calculated; the original dose plus another fraction of a dose to adjust for the lack of response the first night, then increased by another two-thirds for it being the second night, and the soporific. That should do the trick; tonight should get some solid results for a change. He would be watching the tall Italian closely, from the time the dose was administered, and listening throughout the night, and also tomorrow. Yes, tonight could be the progress he was looking for!

Professor Craleigh was MORE than frustrated! He was seriously annoyed. This was not going the way he'd planned it, and it was going to put him seriously behind schedule. He didn't know why that young woman was here, he'd thought civilians were prohibited from being here, but everyone was in the library talking when they should be going to bed! He'd managed to get the drug into the right glass, dissolved nicely with no residue trace, just waiting to be topped off before the last drink, but he wasn't sure when that was going to be. Finally, it seemed they were going to cooperate, last drink was called, and he made sure he was in the right place. Then, it ALL went wrong!

He'd arranged for the tray to be positioned just right for Actor to get that glass, but then the Lieutenant had said something to the tall man that distracted him, so the small Englishman was the one who grabbed that glass with the Italian's dose in it. Heaven knows what THAT would do to his schedule! This was just so annoying! How was he supposed to be running a proper scientific experiment when no one would cooperate??! He pouted all the way to his room, reaching for his notebook to enter the details of this latest disaster, only to find his pocket empty. He searched frantically, but it simply wasn't in his jacket! He debated going back to the library to search, but he couldn't do that til all the lights went out. {"What is going to go wrong next???!"}

Meghada sat in Garrison's office, thumbing through the small green notebook, Garrison sitting in the guest chair watching her. Those lessons with Peter Newkirk had paid off again, certainly, as well as the continued practice she and Caeide made a part of their routine. Professor Craleigh hadn't felt a thing when she'd brushed against him and lifted that small book from his jacket pocket, though she admitted it had helped when Garrison had played diversion to the other side. The Professor had been watching the guys far too intently to ask Goniff to make the snatch, but he never raised a brow at her, other than annoyance at her for being there in the first place.

The small frown of concentration as she waded through the scientific jargon was turning into a deeper frown of disapproval, and now, the tension in her face, in her shoulders, well, that worried him. Finally she looked up.

"Lieutenant, this asshole is using the guys as research subjects for a drug trial, something to test a drug to enduce and enhance nightmares, seeing just what the result would be on the emotional and physical state, with the ultimate goal of supposedly finding ways to overcome those negative results, at least for our side; perhaps to be used to create confusion on the enemy's side. His requirements are listed in the front, along with his goals." She read him both, and he felt himself going white with anger.

"Seems he didn't have much luck with Chief, did better with Casino. Those were the four nights of nightmares you told me about. He's updated his notes through this afternoon; seems he had no luck with Actor, and planned to greatly increase the dosage tonight, along with a sleeping aid, since his drugs seem to inhibit getting to sleep in the first place." She looked at him, "I think you need to get Actor down here, now." Before Garrison could do more than stand up, the door burst open, and Chief leaned in, his face tight with urgency.

"We got trouble, better get up there!" And they took off at his heels, Meghada remembering to tuck the notebook in the pocket of her long full skirt. But when they got to the dorm, it wasn't Actor who was in trouble. It was Goniff. Caught deep in a roiling stream of nightmares, unable to pull himself awake, unable to do anything but let himself be pounded and dashed against the rocks, his mind was caught in the rapids. His body wasn't far behind; his heartbeat was far too rapid, he was gulping for air but what he drew in wasn't enough, and his body temperature was dropping almost into hypothermia levels. As they moved toward him, his back arched and he started to convulse. She dashed to the side of the cot just as he managed to twist and throw himself off, her catching him right before he would have smashed his head in against the fireplace; she'd feel those bruises later, her ribcage, her back, from him, from the stonework, but there was no time to react to that now.

She grabbed the blanket to roll him in it, and screamed at Garrison, "he must have tried for Goniff instead of Actor. Get him in here! Now!" and Garrison, for once in his life obeying an order without hesitation, motioned to Actor and they ran to fetch the Professor. They pulled him in through the doorway, and she turned burning eyes on him, "what did you do?? Yes, we know what you are trying, but why is he reacting this way? How do we stop this??"

The tall man pokered up with indignation, "it's not my fault! He picked up the wrong glass, the fool; the dosage was meant for him," indicating Actor. "It was hardly intentional, you know; it's going to mess up my schedule dreadfully. I suppose you found my notebook and read it; well, I want it back, immediately; that is important scientific research and . . ."

She was in his face, having motioned, waited for Casino and Chief to hold Goniff steady, to keep him from hurting himself.

"So the dosage was wrong, too strong?"

"Well, of course; it's based on body makeup, weight; the proper dosage for one would hardly be appropriate for another, especially with THAT much of a dramatic difference between those two!"

"How do we fix this? What do we do to help him?"

"I haven't a clue; that wasn't the point of my research. Though I must say, it might be quite interesting. If you'll give me my journal back, I'll make the appropriate notes, detail what happens to him; it might be valuable . . .."

Unfortunately, his making the appropriate notes was going to have to wait. She didn't even think about it, she just lashed out in her fury, before turning to return and drop to her knees beside the frantic Englishman.

Garrison and Actor stared down at the crumpled figure in the doorway, tabulating the damage, {"how many seconds did that take? Broken nose, possible broken jaw, he won't be smoking that pipe for some time."}. They looked at each other, shook their heads and turned back to the more important problem.

"Meghada, what can we do?"

She looked up from where she'd been trying to get enough of a grip on the frantically moving man in order to check Goniff's pulse rate, feeling the chill in his skin, seeing him fight for air, and inhaled deeply, "I need a phone!" and dashed out with him leading her to the one in his bedroom, leaving Chief and Casino holding their team mate, trying to keep him from causing further damage to himself. A quick call, then another gave her the information she needed, if not what she had hoped for, and she was back, seeing the situation had, if anything, only gotten worse.

"We can't add anything into that cocktail in his system, I'm told, too risky, we can only try to flush it out. I need warm water, not much more than body temperature to start giving him as soon as he quiets enough that we can get anything down him, cup and spoon to start with; I need hot water bottles or hot packs to battle the chill, more blankets. For the rest, we have to try and help him through it as best we can, give him a lifeline, something to hold on to while he fights this out, because this IS something HE'S going to have to fight and win; we can't do it for him, we can only help him as much as possible, support him in the fight!" She shook her head, blinking rapidly, {"I don't have time for tears, HE doesn't have time for me to show weakness!"}

Actor and Chief went for the water, the others gathering blankets, watched as she knelt beside him once more, this time talking to him, softly, calmly, no matter how less than calm her face, her eyes were. His eyelids were closed tightly, but they could see his eyes moving frantically as he desperately fought the rapids trying to drag him under, to drown him, and she kept encourging him to open them, to assure him he wasn't alone, they were with him, they were there to help him. Casino helped her keep him steady, and the constant movement slowed then stopped and he lay still, but now tightly tense, almost rigid. She never noted when she switched from English to Celts to Apache, and back around; perhaps it didn't really matter; he knew her voice, that was the constant, he knew, surely he knew, what he was to her, that she would be there for him, how could he not? 

She relied on her subconscious to keep the words the others would understand, the English words, keep those, well, careful, sisterly. For the rest, she let her heart guide her, and those words weren't quite so careful; Chief took note of that, as he had back in the Cottage. The Apache he understood for the most part. The Celts? Well, there had been an old woman, he remembered watching from the underbrush as she tended her grandchildren; he remembered those words; he never knew what they meant, but he saw the look on her face when she said them, the tenderness in her voice, remembered the love in her face, the love and happiness in the face of those kids he watched and envied for having someone like her. Yeah, he saw, he understood; he just hoped it would be enough to pull his friend through this.

The guys got back with the water, and she worked to tip a spoonful carefully into his mouth, holding him, supporting him so he wouldn't choke. One, then he had recovered from that, one more, then one more. It seemed to take forever til the cup was empty, but finally he pried his eyes open, and at the sight of her the horror in his face, the desperation seemed to ease just a bit. She gave a quick almost-a-smile, and sat the cup to one side, eased down further beside him to get into a position she could more easily sustain for the battle ahead, bringing him closer and he stiffened at the contact against his overly-sensitized body, but suddenly turned and rolled hard into her with a frantic moan, his forehead pressed deeply into her shoulder, his hands gripping her fiercely, and her arms wrapped around him, her head bent over his, rocking him slightly, gently, rhythmically.

A deep sigh, Garrison thought it perhaps came from both of them, and she started talking again, all soft and low, again some English, some not, soft, soothing, eventually crooning. More water when he could take it, cup after cup, taken spoonful by spoonful, interminable changing of the hot water bottles, more blankets wrapped around the two huddled on the floor when Casino realized they were both shivering, her perhaps more than him at that point, her face matching his in paleness. Then, at a quiet suggestion from Casino, the thin spare mattresses brought out and placed close, where with their help, she could slowly resituate the two of them on something a bit softer, certainly warmer than the bare floor.

A soft moan from the Professor drew their attention. "What do we do about him?" Actor asked softly.

"I have a few ideas," Casino snarled, and the look on Chief's face said he'd gladly go along with whatever the safecracker came up with. Even apart from what they were seeing now, what their teammate, their friend was undergoing, any of them could have ended up with that enhanced cocktail, any of them, and they remembered their own experiences from the past few nights as being bad enough.

"Lock him up someplace for right now, someplace he can't do any harm, create too much of a disturbance. He's not important right now," Garrison told them, turning his eyes back to the two huddled together on the floor in the middle of the room. Her voice was starting to crack with the strain now; Garrison realized she'd been talking constantly for hours, talking, sometimes humming, sometimes softly singing. He thought to offer to switch with her, but somehow he didn't think that was a good idea, not right now, not while what she was doing seemed to be helping, seemed to be working. He wasn't sure they could pry Goniff's hands off her anyway. {"What did she call it, giving him a lifeline?"} Looking at the two of them, he thought that was just about right; they were both holding on so tight, as if letting go would mean he'd sink back into whatever nightmare the Professor had created for him, sink and be lost forever. Garrison knew she'd have bruises once this was over from the tight grip the Englishman had on her; he didn't think she'd mind too much, not if this worked.

He quietly left the room, soon came back with a pot of coffee, a pot of tea, honey, whiskey. The coffee and whiskey had eager hands awaiting; he fixed a mug of the tea, heavy with honey and liberally laced with whiskey, and squatted down to offer it, sip by sip, to the woman, so she never had to move those encircling arms, relax her hold. She rewarded him with a small, weary smile and a nod of thanks, but except for those warm drinks of the tea, never ceased in her crooning, her rocking, and eventually they could see the flaxen-haired man relax a bit more into her arms, and his breathing slowed to something approaching normal.

"Actor, check his pulse for me, his temperature, would you?" she whispered, not sure she could trust what she thought she was feeling, and was relieved when he smiled and confirmed that, indeed, those were much closer to what it should be.

"'Gaida?" came as a hoarse whisper, confused, bewildered, frightened, "what's 'appening?"

"Eie, you had a bad spell, laddie, but it's almost over; just rest, you'll be alright soon, just hold fast, you'll be fine," hoping and praying she was telling him the truth, not just what she wanted the truth to be, not even aware of the tears leaving trails down her cheeks, though those watching could see them clearly.

"You won't leave." It was a breathy statement, perhaps almost a question, not quite a plea, not quite; it didn't have to be.

"No, of course not, now why ever would I? Where is it that I would be going, when I could be here with you? Now, which do you want, laddie, a story or a song?" she asked gently, not paying any attention to the others, all of her attention focused solely on him.

"A song," and in a soft voice, a little strained now, but the tenderness making up for that, she started, first Siuil a Run, then others, til he was sleeping peacefully, now held more loosely in her arms, just a hint of a smile on his face, her voice almost entirely gone.

Garrison opened his mouth to suggest she ease him down to the mattresses, leave him there to sleep, only to catch a look from Chief, a look and a motion of his head. He followed the young Indian, and they came back with the pillows from the Professor's room, the warm quilts, as well as the pillows and coverings from Garrison's room, and together they eased them into position, forming a nest so the young woman could sink down into them, being surrounded by soft warmth without removing her arms from around the slender Englishman. She gave them a slight smile of heartfelt thanks, then closed her own eyes, and let herself drift off, her head close against that of her charge. She'd hear if he made a sound, feel if he moved; she'd awaken if he needed her, she knew that.

Garrison looked at his watch; {"five thirty; this nightmare of a night has gone on for almost eight hours. She's exhausted; we are ALL exhausted."} He left and told the Sergeant Major, who was just coming on duty, "no training for today; no calls; no visitors. They had a full day yesterday, and I pulled them for a crash training exercise all night; they've had no sleep, and neither have I. We'll be upstairs. I don't want any interruptions, Sergeant Major, none." That may or may not work, the Brass being who and what they were, but he knew the Sergeant Major would try his best; for now, maybe they could all get some rest.

He went back to the dorm where they were all sitting on their cots, heads bent, or leaned back against the wall, their eyes meeting his, showing what they had gone through, what watching this had meant; told them all to get some sleep, and watched as they settled down. He stood, watched, reluctant, no, unwilling to head back to his room down the hall, seemingly so far away, so detached from what was important; he made up his mind, without even thinking about it, walked over and stretched out on Goniff's cot, facing into the room, so he could watch the two on the floor, just in case. Casino passed him a blanket with a weary smile, and he accepted it with much the same. He noticed everyone else was watching as well. He knew everyone was wondering, hoping their team mate, their friend, would awake well and unharmed by this; they could only wait and see.

{"Hopefully no one will slip out and strangle Craleigh while I'm asleep, but I'm too tired to worry much about it, too tired to care all that much either."} He supposed it was a good thing, being this tired; otherwise HE would have been tempted to go strangle Craleigh. If anyone ever deserved a good strangling, that man did. His eyelids fluttered, then sank, and he slept.

"'Gaida?"

The soft hesitant voice brought her up from the depths of her weariness, "aye, love?" she whispered, looking down into the pale blue eyes looking at her with more than a little bewilderment, and around, taking in the dorm surrounding them, the two of them snuggled together on the floor in a nest of pillows and blankets and quilts.

He whispered back, "what are you doing 'ere? The Warden, 'e ain't gonna like you being 'ere like this," and she gave a tiny chuckle deep in her throat, "he'll be okay with it, for this time, I promise." She eased away, laying her hand against his throat, checking his pulse, checking to see if any fever or chill was present, but all seemed good that way. His eyes looked more alert, himself.

"'Gaida? I'm 'ungry, and I really gotta . . ." and she laughed softly, brushing her head gently against his, knowing he was ALWAYS hungry, and remembering those innumerable cups of water she'd fed him, spoonful by painful spoonful. "I'll bet you are, and I'll bet you do!"

She moved back, pulling the covers aside, where his eyes got even wider seeing her in full dress while he was just in his boxers and undershirt. He was pretty sure they needed to stop waking up this way, it seemed to be becoming a habit, and thought, {"be better if we BOTH 'ad our clothes off,"} and then flushed a bit at the thought. Well, and at how he was remembering what had happened last time, and wouldn't have minded happening now too, well, after he'd visited the loo. From the half smile on her face, he thought she probably knew what he was thinking, and gave her a shy grin.

"Here, can you stand on your own, if I help?" and he looked at her with an odd expression, "and why wouldn't I be able to?"

Garrison's voice joined the conversation, "let's just say you've had better nights," and Goniff's eyes widened as he took in a weary Garrison sitting on that narrow cot and flushed again, at his thoughts just a moment ago.

"Warden, what're you doing in 'ere? That's my cot. And what am I doin on the floor?" Garrison noticed he hadn't asked about Meghada, perhaps thinking if he didn't mention her, Garrison somehow wouldn't see her curled up there with him so cozy like.

Garrison chuckled, "that's a long story, Goniff. Come on, let's get you up and let you make a trip to the john, then we'll see about getting you fed."

Meghada grinned at him, and laid back against the mounded pillows, watched as Garrison reached out an arm to the small man so close beside her. She was almost too tired to breathe, much less move. By now the other men were crowding into the room, not jostling or crowding him, but giving him a light touch on the shoulder, a quiet word, all obviously relieved to see him awake and on his own feet; they could all see the bewilderment in his eyes, but decided to leave it up to Garrison to explain.

Meghada accepted a hand from Casino, and let herself be pulled to her feet, where she swayed for a moment, and felt him steady her, then got her balance and stretched and sighed and blinked the last of the sleep from her eyes. "I could use a trip of my own," letting him point her in the right direction. By the time she came back, hands and face washed, hair at least tidied as best she could, clothes shaken loose from some of the amazing collection of wrinkles, he was waiting to escort her down to the kitchen.

When she walked in through the doorway, to see her blond Englishman, yes, HERS, though perhaps none of the others realized that yet though she thought Chief just might, from the tiny smile and knowing look he gave her, dressed and perched on the bench, steadily making his way through a full plate of food, she knew things were looking up. She watched; his eyes seemed clear, his voice was steady, the right timbre, his coloring - well, its usual very pale tone. She looked at Garrison, who gave her a smiling nod; {'okay, so he seems to feel all is back to normal,"} and she felt the remaining tension drain from her body.

"Well, I see you found the food," noting somehow there was actual food on the table, not those K-rations that passed as food. She accepted a cup of coffee with real gratitude, and sat to watch her laddie inhale his breakfast.

He sat back with a deep sigh of contentment, "now, that's what a breakfast SHOULD be like!" and the guys roared. He'd just eaten about three meals worth of food, what with the rationing, though Casino had to admit it was nice to see him finally satisfied for once. "Anything sweet for afters?"came hopefully, and the safecracker dropped his head in his hands, groaning, "sure why not? Nobody around here needs to eat for the rest of the week, right?" but only smiled secretly into his palms when Garrison slid two sweet biscuits in front of the safecracker, who grinned in delight.

"Eh, Warden, it be okay if 'Gaida spent the night again? Didn't 'ardly get to visit at all, we didn't, least not that I can remember. She can bunk in with me again; that worked out right well." and the silence that met his cheeky request was answer enough. He heaved a deep sigh, "no, I guess not," but giving her another sly grin, to the accompaniment of boisterous ribbing from the guys. And she actually found herself giggling with delight, to see him truly himself again, {"oh, this laddie of mine. He is truly one of a kind!"}

She exchanged a grin with Garrison, who tried really hard not to grin back, but he just couldn't help himself. His thoughts had actually been somewhat similar, {"yes, he's back, thank God!; he is one of a kind, this pickpocket of ours!"}

***

The Professor drove off in a huff. Well, it was actually a jeep, and he wasn't doing the driving, he was in the floorboards under a blanket, bound and gagged, but that sounded much better when Garrison related it to the frowning Lieutenant who came to inquire.

"He just drove off, in a huff. Not a word to us; maybe the job was finished, whatever the hell he was doing." No more, no less, no elaborations. Nothing to see, nothing to say, no sir, not at all. The Professor was gone, the notebook was gone, things were back to normal. The 'thinker-toy' division was at a loss; yes, they'd given the Professor a sizeable advance on his payment, but they didn't expect him to pack up and scarper like that. They'd challenged the Lieutenant when he reported back, and sent him back to get confirmation; maybe that Lieutenant Garrison and his men weren't being entirely truthful, though the guard at the gate had added his assurances, "yes, saw him drive out myself, I did; entered it in the log, all right and proper."

However, the Sergeant Major was able to direct them to one other person who offered up the same story; Mrs. Sheila Riley, seemingly a most prim and proper lady, wife of the local physician. The lady had been at the Mansion, collecting for charity, don't you know, when the Professor had left. Not a word to her about where he was going, of course; well, why would he have, she'd never even been introduced, sir! Someone who could verify what she said??! How dare he? Was he suggesting she was prevaricating? Well, indeed! Really!!! Did the Lieutenant think she would actually LIE to him?? He could just ask her husband, if he insisted. HE'D tell the Lieutenant a thing or two!

The Lieutenant did talk to her husband, just to let the Brass know he'd covered all bases. The Lieutenant had never met the Professor, or any of those on the Friends and Family list, and that was perhaps fortunate, so he didn't see the faint resemblance a certain Friend might have had, that had been enough to fool the guard at the gate, especially with the addition of those horn rimmed glasses the man always wore, and that deerstalker cap he favored, and his flappy plaid overcoat. The friend had entered the Mansion grounds in the same way the Professor had left, well, without the being bound and gagged part; being part of the Friends and Family group, he never asked, never questioned what he was being asked to do. If the Clan asked, they had a good reason, he was quite sure.

Garrison, the guys, well they considered asking about the Professor, thought about asking about him, but somehow they just never got around to it, and that was probably best for everyone concerned. The only thing that was said was when Garrison had snarled something about his men being selected, not any of THEM, not any of THEIR SONS; Actor had spoken up with a bitterness he usually kept better in check, "you said it was necessary that the men selected come from a background where they would already be experiencing nightmares; perhaps they and their sons didn't qualify."

Meghada's snarl was even more pronounced than Garrison's, "if that was the only thing disqualifying them, I could have arranged for that to be rectified, easily enough," and the look in her eye, well, no one doubted that, not one bit. They wouldn't have been surprised if she didn't do that, even now, just so they could be ready for the next opportunity.

It was very soon after when she sat with them in the library and introduced a subject much on her mind since their encounter with the Professor. "Guys, the nightmares," only to watch their eyes shift away in discomfort. She considered, but decided it was worth making the attempt. "There is a way, something we were taught, that can sometimes help, at least with the repeating ones." And she explained about changing the course of a nightmare, not stopping them, but mitigating the ending to something more tolerable. To her relief, she had caught their interest, so much so that she knew all of them experienced the night terrors, just as she herself did. Garrison wasn't here; he'd been called to London again, but she didn't want to wait til he returned; the moment had seemed right, the guys receptive.

"It's important to have at least three points of change; it gives you more opportunity to take hold and change the trend. My instructor described it as tumbling down a cliff; it's important to have several branches to grab at before you hit bottom, in case you miss the first, or the second tries. And it's important that they be strong branches, so the points of change need to be strong and detailed, so that your mind can grab hold and let itself be pulled away from the nightmare."

"Points of change?" Actor asked.

"Aye, well, suppose your recurring dream is of walking down a path and meeting a bear, the bear chasing you through the woods, and eventually catching you at the base of a cliff and, well, it not going well, shall we say. The points of change might be, seeing the bear as you are on the path and having a hunter come along and chase the bear away; if you get past that point, perhaps as you are running through the woods you see a deep pit in front of you and you leap over it and the bear falls in and gets trapped; if you don't stop the dream there, perhaps the bear catches up to you where your back is up against a cliff, and - well, consider the possibilities."

"Other than being torn apart and getting eaten?" Goniff asked, with a wry look on his face.

"Yes, other than that, unless that's far better than what your dream tends to present to you," she mock frowned at him. "The thing is, you work them out in advance, think them through, know them so thoroughly that you can drop them in place when the dreams come. The major points of ultimate change are usually considered to be spiritual, physical, emotional, comical, and" and she gave them a wicked grin, "erotic," capturing their attention even more, just as she had intended.

"So the bear is in front of you, a cliff behind you and, the Spiritual - you discover it is a Spirit Bear, a Guide, and only wanted to talk to you to give you some sound advice. You listen, you ask questions to which you really WOULD like the answers, questions you've thought out in advance, you learn, and you go on your way wiser."

"Physical - you find there is a spear leaning against the cliff next to you, and you throw it, killing the bear, skinning it and taking the meat home for Sergeant Major to make a year's worth of bear stew." A few 'yucks!', and one sincere, 'but bear stew ain't bad, guys!' from Chief.

"Emotional - the bear sits down, all dejected like, begs for you to talk to it, it's sad and lonesome, you have a long drawn out conversation, you should decide on a few possible topics in advance, maybe baseball? Art? Larceny? Girls?" to their collective groans, "end up having tea and biscuits at the little table he's set up off to the side, and you part friends." She thought Goniff perked up at the thought of the tea and biscuits! {"Well, he would, wouldn't he?"}

"Comical - the bear growls at you, and you see a zipper on the front of the bear, and it starts slipping down, and you think it's funny because the bear isn't noticing the zipper coming down, and you see a large pink rabbit inside, making growly noises, and then you see the zipper on the front of the rabbit, and when it slips down, you see the mouse inside, making these teeny, tiny growls, and when it sees the zippers undone, it jumps out, grabs the empty bear skin and empty rabbit skin and runs like crazy, squealing with laughter at fooling you, and you laughing right along with him."

"Erotic - well, perhaps it's been a really long cold winter, it turns out to be a girl bear," and the expected dropped jaws and wide eyed stares from appalled faces caused her to grin at them, and offer a concession, "well, alright, maybe a shifter bear, a woman able to change to bear when she wants AND change back. But, it's still been a long winter, she's lovely, she's lonely, and very enticing, and she has a snug warm cave just a few feet away. My instructor says that with the repetitive nightmares, sometimes the change points can become so involved and so interesting, you almost don't want the dream to end." The thoughtful looks on their faces and the slight smiles told them they were thinking about that female shifter bear, and she knew it when she heard, "I can see 'ow that could 'appen, you know," and she grinned in glee. {"I refuse to be jealous of a dream shifter bear, but I wouldn't mind playing the part sometime; it could be fun,"} she chuckled to herself.

Garrison had been quiet, subdued, withdrawn when he got back from that next trip to London. He inquired about the men, and walked over to the firing range to watch them practice, noting the accuracy or inaccuracy was pretty much what he'd come to expect; took them out on the obstacle course, paying attention to who handled what well, who had trouble with what - again, pretty much what he'd come to expect; sat and watched as they played cards, ragged each other about some earlier disagreement, watched Goniff nick Casino's matches for the hundredth time, and dash away laughing, dodging out of reach when Casino finally realized it. He left quietly, without saying much of anything. The guys exchanged a worried glance. 

Actor made a point of checking on him in his office, "Craig? Is everything alright?" The officer was sitting behind his desk, studying a small bottle in his hand. When he didn't get an answer he came through the door, and sat down in the chair opposite the desk, "Craig?" This time his voice got through. "Any problems? A new mission? Any more questions from the Brass about Craleigh?"

Garrison didn't look at him, just kept turning the small bottle in his hand as if it held the secrets of the universe. "No questions, some information. Seems the good Professor had an accident, ran his jeep off a winding road up in Scotland; no one knows what he was doing in Scotland, HQ figures they probably never will know. Said they'd spent some time looking for his record book that he always had with him, but it's pretty rough country, cliff he went over ends up in a river, so no surprise there when they didn't find it. He was identifiable, fingerprints and dental records match and all, so there's no doubt it's him. Had a broken neck, along with other injuries consistent with going over a cliff."

Actor remained silent; he didn't really know what to say. The record book, well, what remained of that had been swept out with the other ashes from the fireplace before Meghada had left the Mansion. Garrison opened the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out another bottle, a taller one, along with two glasses. He splashed some of the whiskey in each glass and handed one over to Actor. He glanced at him, then back to the small pill bottle now sitting in front of him, picking it up again in his left hand.

"I stopped by the hospital, got a refill for those pain pills." He and his parachute had had a disagreement that last mission and his back wasn't through telling him about it.

"Yes?" Actor encouraged him, knowing there was something more, more than Garrison letting him know he was still in pain, though he usually tried to hide that, more than the news about Craleigh. Garrison was still turning the bottle around and around in his hand.

"I'm supposed to take 1/2 tablet once a day; that's what the directions were before. I looked at the label on the new bottle before I left; the dosage was different - 2 tablets, twice a day, so I went back in and checked. Thought the doctor was going to pass out. Got all excited. Someone's likely to lose their job over this, looks like. Seems half a tablet is already a lot; this is pretty powerful stuff, the most he'd prescribe per day for someone my weight and build. With 2 full tablets, twice a day, he said anything could have resulted. I could have ended up with permanently impaired vision, or loss of mobility - I could have been crippled. I could have been left with acute psychosis; I could have gone insane, and never come out of it. I could have had respiratory failure, my heart might have given out. I could have ended up dead, or worse. I asked him what would happen with that dosage with someone who weighted less, slighter build; he turned dead white, wouldn't even discuss it." He sipped at his whiskey.

"You ever think about how the world is changing, Actor? How we keep running up against the drugs, the magic potions, and all the nutcases who want to tinker with them?" He raised his eyes, seeing the understanding in those dark brown eyes looking back at him, remembering their last little adventures with just such nutcases.

Actor asked, "she knew, didn't she, that night? That look in her eyes, the way she never stopped talking to him, the way she held so tight, like if she let go, he'd be lost forever."

Garrison nodded, "I think those phone calls told her all that, the possibilities of what a massive overdose of any such drug could do."

"She didn't say anything, only just about what we needed to do to help him fight; well, I think that was meant as a kindness to us, but it left it all on her, knowing what was possible, knowing what might be coming."

Garrison nodded, "Craleigh, I think that was meant as a kindness too, well, partly; she would never have been able to just let it go, any more than we could, I know that now, but there was nothing WE could do about him, not really; the Brass would've probably said what he was doing, it was just another mission for the team, and if it went wrong, well, acceptable losses in the line of duty. Acceptable losses!"

Garrison wanted to throw his glass at the wall remembering that night, the battle that was raged on the behalf of their Englishman. "We were lucky."

The tall Italian nodded, and heaved a deep sigh, "Yes, Craig, we were lucky, we were very lucky."

And Craig Garrison lifted his glass, "a toast, to Professor Craleigh," to which Actor raised his eyebrows in inquiry, this not being quite what he would have expected.

Craig repeated, "To Professor Craleigh" and added the important part, "may he rot in hell!" to which Actor gave a hearty, "here, here!" and the two swallowed down the contents of their glass.

Craig looked thoughtful, "the way she was with him, fought for him every step of the way; they're friends, I know that. What if . . ."

Actor considered; {"does he mean what would have happened if it hadn't ended well, if he had died, or perhaps worse? What if they are, or are becoming MORE than friends? Or does he mean, would she have fought so hard if it hadn't been Goniff? I think I'll answer the last, it's the easiest of the three, certainly, the one to which I actually have the answer."}

He smiled at Craig, "what if it hadn't been Goniff? What if it had been one of the other of us?"

"She would have done the same, Craig, I have no doubt about that. Oh, the words would have been different; she would probably have quoted Sun Tzu and Hannibal and talked military tactics and strategies to you; Elizabethan literature and Venetian architecture and Victorian art forgeries to me perhaps; something different with Chief, with Casino. But she would have held on just as tightly, fought just as hard. They are friends, yes, and theirs is a very special friendship, I think; but through him, because of him, she has become a friend to us, also. To her, her people, that means a great deal. Like you said, we are lucky."

They tossed back a second glass of whiskey, and Craig picked up the bottle and motioned with his head and they made their way up to the Common Room. Actor watched, with an understanding smile on his face as Craig Garrison poured a drink into five mismatched glasses, seeing their wondering, questioning looks, gave them a somewhat grim smile, "gentlemen, to good luck, and to good friends!" and they raised their glasses and drank down the not-great-but-adequate whiskey.

Afterwards, Goniff turned to Casino and asked, in a hushed voice, "ei, Casino, any idea what THAT was all about?" only to get a shake of the head and shrug from his teammate and friend, "beats the hell outta me, but it's pretty good hooch!"


End file.
